


Contractual offering

by sherlockcrush



Series: The Contract [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bloodplay, M/M, Mild bloodplay but it's not major, Mildly Dubious Consent, Power Dynamics, Red Pants, Vampire Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockcrush/pseuds/sherlockcrush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the modern world, vampires purchase contracts of humans who need to sell one year of service to a vampire or vampire family. Contracts can be bought for children as young as 15, and the vampires may claim their year of service any time until age 35, when they expire, claimed or not. John's family was poor and had a contract for him. He thought he was out of the woods when at age 34, Sherlock appears to claim his year of service.  Inspired by a post in the kinkmeme. http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn’t, John thought morosely, the absolute worst thing that would happen _. It could be worse…could be worse….could be…_

Gregory Lestrade smacked another pint down the table. A bit of the beer sloshed over onto the table, but frankly at this point, John couldn’t care.

Greg sat heavily next to him with his own pint. _How many was this so far? Four? Five?_ “Well,” Greg said after a minute of heavy silence, “I suppose it could be worse.”

“How?” John spat out, and he couldn’t help but let the bitterness creep into his voice.

“Look, Sherlock Holmes is a…decent sort of vampire. He’s not like some of them, thinking they can walk all over us _mere_ mortals. He’s a help at crime scenes, if a bit of an arse. I mean, think about it. He doesn’t have to be. Most of them don’t care what we humans do to each other as long as we’re around to offer ourselves up as contracts.” Greg winced at the last word.

John snorted. “No it’s alright. I’ve got to come to grips with it sometime, right? Bollocks, I was so close. A year. Just one more bloody year and the Statute of Limitations would have run out and I’d be free.” John took a long swig of beer.

Greg listened, letting his friend talk. Based on a law negotiated by Queen Elizabeth I and the vampire community of Britain, any human or family could sell a contract for one year of service to a vampire or a vampire family. One year of blood donations and…whatever else the vampire wished. It was a financial arrangement, and people often did it in times of need. One might ask _why_ someone would do that, but of course, the vampires, though there were fewer of them, lived much longer and had powers humans could only dream of, and, frankly, they controlled the banks. By law, a vampire could claim a contract any time between the contracted human’s age of 15 and 35. John was 34, and his contract has been sold by his struggling parents to the Holmes family when he had been a child. The poor veteran doctor had started to think the Holmes’s had forgotten about the contract completely. He’d thought he was safe.

“You know, there is one thing,” Greg said slowly. “Not to get your hopes up or anything, but I’ve never seen him, well, he’s never _with_ anyone. He says he’s married to his work and seems to think of flirting as some waste of time. I’ve never seen him take a second glance at anyone, and Molly, the lab tech, nearly throws herself at him.”

“So maybe he won’t be interested in…”

“Yeah…” Greg took another swig, idly playing a finger along the side of his own neck. “Did he give you instructions?”

John snorted. “He sent it by text of all things. Said I’m to meet him at – hold on.” He pulled out his phone and pulled up the text. He showed it to Greg.

_We commence on Friday. Meet me at 221B Baker St. 10am. Do not be late. –SH_

“Well,” Greg said grimly, “You’d best get to bed then.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a 10am date with a vampire. Don’t want to be late,” John said grimly and slammed the empty glass down on the table.


	2. Chapter 2

John double checked the address. 221B Baker Street. Somehow he’d imagined something grander. He knocked hesitantly on the door. After a moment he knocked again. _Should he just walk in?_ He looked at his watch; it was 10:00am exactly. 

The door flew open and Sherlock Holmes walked briskly out and closed the door behind him. “You’re here. Good. Come along then.” He walked quickly past John, who scrambled to turn around followed him. Sherlock slipped gracefully into a black sedan that had appeared smoothly from around the corner. John climbed inside somewhat more awkwardly.

Almost immediately, Sherlock was typing away on his cell phone. John glanced at the driver and decided to simply sit quietly on the plush leather seat as they were driven to….somewhere.

“Savile Row,” the vampire said abruptly.

“I’m sorry?”

“You were wondering where we’re going. We’re going to Savile Row to see my tailor.”

Somehow that wasn’t what John had expected to be doing on his first day of service to a member of one of Britain’s oldest vampire families. He looked down at his own clothes. The slacks and sweater suddenly seemed rather lower class. He shifted, feeling under dressed.

“Don’t worry about your attire,” Sherlock said with a note of amusement, “We’re going there for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes, I cannot have you wandering around London carrying my sigil wearing anything less than the best. My family’s enemies will sniff a weakness. It could cause problems. That and Mycroft would never let me hear the end of it.” He flashed John a smirk that showed just the tip of a long extended fang.

“Oh, um, well thank you, I suppose.” John wasn't sure how he felt about this. He decided to watch London pass by through the windows.

The car stopped in front of Henry Poole & Co. and John followed Sherlock into the store, feeling out of place. They were immediately set upon by a small horde of attendants, who clearly were expecting them. they were ushered into a nice sitting room and John quickly found himself standing stock still as an elderly man, the head tailor, took his measurements. The vampire ignored most of it with his face buried in his phone.

“And what types of pieces would you like to order, sir?” the tailor asked Sherlock with a bow. John tried not protest that _he_ wouldn’t be the one wearing the things, so perhaps he should be asked instead.

“I’d like to start with seven suits. No three pieces – that’s my brother’s style. Simple, comfortable. Two dozen shirts. A handful of ties. Nothing too flashy. And I suppose I must order one with the family crest on it for family gatherings and the like.” Sherlock sounded annoyed at the last request.

John opened his mouth to protest that he didn’t wear ties, but he closed it with a snap at a glare from his new master. A maid carried a tray in and placed it on a coffee table in front of Sherlock. He didn’t acknowledge her as he reached for a goblet of blood. He tasted some and smiled, eyes on the mobile screen. John looked away. He knew that vampires could drink like this, but he had heard that it was less than palatable. Like drinking tepid tea. _How long until he wants it fresh from me?_

Swallowing a sigh, John sat and he smiled in thanks as the maid handed him a cup of tea. 

“They’ll bring out the book of fabric samples. You can choose the fabric for several. I will choose the rest,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“I don’t think I’ve ever chosen fabric for a suit before,” John said.

“I know. I have also taken the liberty of ordering several new pairs of shoes for you. They will be delivered this afternoon.”

John didn’t bother to ask how the vampire knew his shoe size. Or why he was treating John like a large dressup doll. Or why he’d waste his time on what exactly John wore. John sipped his tea and stayed silent.

\------

John looked around the cluttered mess that was 221B. It was cozy, which wasn’t what he had expected. In fact, it felt more like a home than the bare studio he had been staying in since returning from Afghanistan. Sherlock flopped down on the couch, hands behind his head, as he watched John explore.

“Do you cook?”

“Erm, sometimes,” John said, opening the glass doors to the kitchen. “I thought vampires didn’t need to eat food?”

“We don’t. But we can’t have you dying of starvation while under my care, can I? Besides, that would make you somewhat useless as a donor. Also, your room is upstairs,” Sherlock said with a bored tone. 

John stopped. “So…you want me to live here? With you?” He dared not actually look at the vampire.

“Of course. It would be rather inconvenient for you to come here by way of the coffee shop whenever I need you.” Sherlock picked up a knife and casually twirled it between his fingers. If it cut skin, John couldn’t tell. “Besides, that dreadful little place where you’ve been living, if you can call it such, is utterly depressing.”

“I won’t argue with you there,” John said with a small amused snort. He took a deep breath and voiced the questions that had danced around his mind since receiving the summons. “But still, isn’t this a bit sudden? And why me? Why now?”

“John,” Sherlock said as he sat up. “You have few possessions, even fewer that you care about. You’re not close to your sister and you wouldn’t stay with her if you were with her drinking. You have a job at a clinic where you spend your considerable skills and experience on hypochondriacs and over-protective mothers who bring their children in for one sniffle. You’re extremely skilled. You’re a steady shot and good to have at your back in a fight. I offer you companionship and an interesting vocation, not to mention a chance to use those untapped skills and talents that general society finds useless, and frankly, somewhat frightening. You’re bored. You’re – lonely, if I may point out. You can be a help to me, and I can use your talents so much more effectively.”

At the end of this surprising speech, John swallowed nervously and turned away to explore the kitchen. No food, except for blood bags in the fridge, of course. But a whole lot of lab equipment. “Do you do…experiments here?”

He turned around and nearly gasped. Sherlock was standing not a foot away and John hadn’t even heard him move. “Yes.”

John took a step back automatically and bumped into the kitchen counter. Sherlock was looking down at him with an intense stare that seemed to cut right to his soul. The vampire’s eyes, bright and sharp, slowly made their way down John’s body, taking in every detail. John had never felt so naked. He glanced down, feeling vulnerable under such scrutiny. When John looked up again, the vampire was gone. John was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: Henry Poole & Co. is considered to be the original bespoke establishment in Savile Row. It's clients include the Royal Family and Sir Winston Churchill. According to Sherlockology.com, the Holmes brothers are wearing real bespoke suits in the series, though I don't know if they came from Henry Poole.


	3. Chapter 3

“That way!” Lestrade ran down the alley after the murderer, Sherlock, John, and a couple of other officers on his trail. They turned several corners, jumping over piles of garbage and dumpsters, and one surprised homeless man buried in a pile of rags. Suddenly, Sherlock stopped. John put his hands out, pushing off of the vampire’s solid back to keep from running into him completely. The rest continued running.

“That way is a dead end,” Sherlock said, adjusting his scarf. John noticed he wasn’t even winded. “He’s going to be trapped, but he’s still armed. John, stay here to head him off just in case. And get your gun out. You should be ready.”

John pulled the Browning out and nodded. “What are you going to do?”

“Watch,” Sherlock said, showing both of his fangs. Suddenly, the vampire jumped. John watched, mouth agape, as Sherlock climbed effortlessly up the wall of the alley. He then moved sideways, towards the murderer, who was now cornered at the end of the alley. Lestrade and the other officers ducked behind dumpsters as the criminal opened fire, shooting at everything that moved. Several bullets flew down the alley and John ducked. He poked his head out the side to see if he could move in closer when a large black shape dropped onto the crazed killer.

The vampire dropped down on top of him, knocking him to the ground in a flurry of speed and strength. John gasped, watching in awe. He had never actually seen a vampire in action like this. He had heard of it. There had even been a special force of them in Her Majesty’s Army in Afghanistan, but the group was very secretive and no one talked about its tactics or the missions it completed. Ever. In less than a minute of tussling, Sherlock had the man pinned to the ground and whining in pain as he pulled one arm behind his back at an awkward angle. 

“All clear!” Lestrade yelled as they approached the pair. John crawled out and approached them. The officers were handcuffing the murderer, but he noticed that Sherlock was still kneeling on the ground, head bowed, one hand on his side.

“Sir?” he asked tentatively. He had only been in the vampire’s service for four days, and he wasn’t sure what to call him. Or how to approach him. How did one approach a wounded creature that could easily snap him in half?

Sherlock looked up at him, and John fought the urge to step away. The man’s eyes were dark and violent. His fangs were extended and claws had grown out of his long fingers. He growled in warning. John slowly knelt in front of him, ignoring a heated argument nearby between several officers. He reached out a hand slowly and gently pried Sherlock’s hand away.

“You’re hurt!” John exclaimed. 

“He had a knife. It’s not bad. Barely worth worrying about for one of my kind.”

“Still. Do you need help? Medical attention?”

The look that Sherlock gave him made his pulse speed up in ways he didn’t want to examine. “No,” he said after a pause, finally looking away. “I have already begun to heal.” He stood up, pulling John up with him. “Lestrade! I trust you have what you need?”

The DI walked over to them. He didn’t seem surprised by the wound on Sherlock’s side. “Well, there is paperwork, which I know you hate, but –“ He held his hands up defensively.

“Dull. Send it to John.” Sherlock waived a hand in dismissal.

The DI looked at his friend, eyebrows raised in silent question.

“Uh, yes. Send it to me, I’ll take care of it,” John said, knowing that wasn’t what Greg was trying to ask. “When do you need it by?”

“Next Wednesday if possible.”

“Sure, I’ll bring it by your office.”

Sherlock had already begun to stalk off towards a black sedan that had appeared at the end of the alley.

“Well,” John said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I guess I should go.”

“Wait,” Greg said, grabbing his arm. “How’s it going with him? He treating you ok?”

“Yeah, been decent so far,” John replied with a shrug. “Nothing much really. He got me a load of new expensive clothes.” John gestured to his outfit of a tailored suit. “And so far I’ve been helping clean up the flat. Bit of a mess really, but loads of interesting stuff. He’s got these things that people have given as gifts, including this vase from the Duke of –“

“John!”

John and the DI looked guiltily over to where Sherlock was waiting by the car. He looked impatient.

“I should go,” John said with a tense smile.

Greg nodded and watched, hands in his pockets, as John walked towards his new master.

In the car, Sherlock was surprisingly not buried in his mobile. “Sherlock. You can call me by my name, instead of…other titles,” the vampire said after a moment. 

“Oh, sorry si-Sherlock." He paused. "Seems more comfortable anyway,” John said, a hint of relief in his voice.

Sherlock shot him a smile and pulled out his mobile.

John wondered just how fast Sherlock would heal. Vampires were very quiet about their physiology, most likely to protect themselves from the humans obtaining knowledge of their weaknesses. John knew that they could heal very quickly, that they needed human blood to survive, and that they preferred to have specific blood donors. _But what about me? He hasn’t tried yet to drink blood from me._

The car dropped them off in front of 221B and John followed the still-silent vampire inside. Once in the sitting room, the vampire began to strip off his clothes without a trace of self-consciousness. 

“Too bad, I liked that shirt,” he muttered as he dropped the ripped and bloody shirt on the floor.

Seeing the wound clearly for the first time, John knelt on the floor in front of him so that he could inspect it further. He gently touched the edges, noting how the skin was torn.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, bemused, eyebrows raised.

“Putting my considerable skills to better use,” John said with a smirk as he assessed the wound. As he watched, the skin appeared to be renewing itself slowly. “Amazing,” he breathed.

“It should be healing faster,” Sherlock muttered.

John’s eyes flicked up to meet Sherlock’s. Thankfully they had returned to the normal grey color. “Why?”

“Possibly because I haven’t fed properly in a while.” He frowned, looking down at the wound in his side. “Mycroft would love to say ‘I told you so’ were he present at this moment. He’s been trying to get me to find a donor for a while. Blood bags never provide enough nutrition. Like fresh produce, it begins to lose nutritional value while it sits on the shelf.”

John’s pulse sped up, but he kept his eyes on Sherlock’s. “Do you – do you need me? I mean, my blood?”

“It would improve the healing process,” he replied, his voice deeper than a moment before.

John resolutely stood up and began unbuttoning his shirt. This was what he was here for, right?

“That won’t be necessary,” Sherlock stopped him. “I can feed from your wrist.”

Sherlock lightly grasped John’s wrist and sat on the sofa, guiding John to sit next to his unwounded side. Sherlock unbuttoned the cuff and rolled up the sleeve, revealing John’s wrist and forearm. Long, pale fingers ran almost teasingly over the soft skin on his inner wrist. John swallowed.

“Have you ever been bitten by a vampire, John?”

“No,” he replied softly, watching Sherlock’s fingers rub nonsensical patterns on his skin.

“Then this shall be a new experience for you." Sherlock smiled, showing his fangs. "You know, many find the experience…enjoyable.” 

John swallowed again and licked his suddenly dry lips. “I’ve heard that.”

“But some don’t,” Sherlock continued. “I shall endeavor to make this fast, and only take what is needed.”

Something made John look up into Sherlock’s eyes, and when he did he felt caught, like prey in a bright light. Uncomfortable as he was, he couldn’t look away as the vampire brought his wrist up to his mouth. Sherlock licked at the skin, smiling when John shivered. Still holding John in his gaze, the vampire bared his teeth and bit down.

John gasped, eyes wide. The feeling was…extraordinary. There was pain, yes, but it was almost so sharp that it didn’t register. The doctor in John paid attention to the feeling of the flow of his blood to where Sherlock’s mouth was latched on. And then a slight pinch at the fangs pulled out and the tongue was licking him again.

When Sherlock released his wrist, John stared at it. Two small pinprick wounds were visible, but not other damage.

“That didn’t take long,” John said, feeling foolish the minute he said it.

“Only what I need,” Sherlock reiterated with a smirk. He rolled John’s sleeve back down and buttoned the cuff. The act was almost tender, like aftercare.

Stunned and a bit overwhelmed, John jumped up and headed to the kitchen, pausing to lean on the door frame. “I’m going to make myself a cuppa. Erm, can I heat you up some blood? Do you need anything?”

“Thank you John. But I think I’m going to rest. You should rest, too. You’ve just lost blood. Sit down before you fall and injure yourself.”

A moment later, John heard the bedroom door close with a soft click. John let out a breath and leaned his forehead against the wall cabinet, feeling dizzy and willing his erection to go down.


	4. Chapter 4

_My brother will want to see you soon._ Sherlock’s words from yesterday morning crossed John’s mind as the black limousine with black tinted windows rolled up next to him. His mobile buzzed.

_Please get in, Dr. Watson – MH_

John looked around once and then climbed into the car. It immediately began to move into London traffic. John found himself sitting across from an impeccably dressed man and smiled politely, legs crossed.

“Mycroft Holmes?” John asked, eyebrow raised.

The man nodded with a tight smile. “Yes, please allow me to introduce myself, Dr. Watson. I am Sherlock’s older brother. I thought I should introduce myself to my brother’s newest…friend.”

John shifted. Somehow he doubted this man liked him. Or perhaps he was always so stiff. He decided to stay silent. Mycroft pressed a button to reveal a small refrigerator in the wall. 

“May I offer you a drink, Dr. Watson?”

“Uh, just a coke for me, please,” he replied, eying the array of drinks and alcohol. 

Mycroft handed it to him and picked up a glass of blood. He sipped it, watching the human doctor. “Your contract began, what, three weeks ago?”

“A month and a half.”

“Ah. And how are things going between you?”

“Fine. I help around the house. Cleaning for now. And he’s brought me to crime scenes to help.”

“And you find this enjoyable, Dr. Watson?”

John shrugged. “It’s fine, I suppose. I like helping at crime scenes. It’s interesting.”

Mycroft Holmes nodded. 

“And, if I may be so bold, Dr. Watson, may I ask if my brother has fed from you? I realize that it’s rather personal, but I am asking for my brother’s health. He has, in the past, not fed often enough and found himself weak.” He spat out the last word.

“Erm, well, yes. He has. Several times.” John shifted uncomfortably.

“Only several times? He must take a lot and store it at a cooler temperature to keep it fresh?”

“Uh, no. No, he says he only takes what he needs,” John said with a shrug and a frown.

“And I suppose that as a doctor, you’re already used to needles,” Mr. Holmes said with a hint of disdain.

“Needles? What needles? He hasn’t used needles,” John said, confused.

Mycroft Holmes paused, about to take a sip of blood. “He feeds from you? _Directly_ from you?”

John nodded, unsure of why this was a surprise. How would Sherlock do it with needles? Remove his blood via syringe and store it in the fridge?

“Show me.” It wasn’t a suggestion and John pulled up his left sleeve to reveal the two small puncture marks on his inner wrist. Mycroft leaned forwards in interest and looked closely. “Interesting.” He leaned back. “You should know that my brother usually doesn’t feed directly from his donors.”

“Why not?”

Mycroft shrugged elegantly. “It is his prerogative,” he answered distantly.

The car came to a stop outside of 221B. 

“Should you ever need anything, Dr. Watson, I do hope that you won’t hesitate to contact me.”

“Of course,” John said tightly, recognizing the dismissal when he saw it. He got out and walked inside, somewhat perplexed.

“What did he want to know?” Sherlock asked almost the moment John walked in. He was in the kitchen looking intently at something on a slide under the microscope.

“Um, just how we’re doing. Whether you feed from me. Stuff like that.” John flushed a bit. He now had an almost Pavlovian response to the idea of feeding, the mere mention of which made him hard and aching. If Sherlock noticed, he never said anything. John leaned against the counter and watched him, trying to look casual.

Sherlock hummed in response. “Anything else?”

John paused, making Sherlock glance up at him. “Well, he said you don’t always feed directly from your donors. He was very interested in seeing the puncture marks on my wrist.”

Sherlock frowned and looked back at the slide. “My brother should stay out of what is not his business.” His eyes flicked to John briefly. “But he is correct.”

“Why not? What’s…special about…this?” he gestured to his wrist.

John suddenly found himself pinned bodily to the kitchen counter, neck craned as he looked up into the vampire’s bright eyes.

Sherlock grasped his left wrist, the one that he always fed from, and held it up between them. His thumb rubbed over the inner wrist, pressing hard. John realized belatedly that the way they were pressed together, Sherlock was sure to know he was hard.

“When one of my kind feeds _directly_ from one of your kind, it forms a connection.” Sherlock’s voice was low and slower than normal, sending shivers up John’s spine. He held John’s wrist up to his nose and sniffed audibly. To John, it appeared that he was sniffing a glass of fine wine.

Sherlock dropped his wrist and was suddenly back at the microscope. “You should speak with DI Lestrade. I’m sure he has some…interesting insights to impart.”

John calmed his breathing and shook his head as if from a fog. “Greg? Why? We’re supposed to go out for drinks tonight, actually.”

“Yes, I know. And because he has been fed from _directly_ for a number of years now.”

John gaped at him. “Wait. Greg? Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. We’re talking about the same man, right?”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes. I assure you he has been a willing donor for years. He is simply not open about the private facts of his life.”

“Well. Right. I suppose I will ask him.”

“When you go to Tesco’s today, please pickup a bag of sugar. I need some for my experiment,” Sherlock said, abruptly changing the subject.

“How did you know that I’m planning to go? Never mind. Forget I asked. I’ll add sugar to the list.”


	5. Chapter 5

The pub was loud and busy as Greg brought the first round of drinks to the corner table John had staked out for the two of them.

“Cheers, mate.”

“Cheers.”

Greg took a swallow. “You know, I’m glad Sherlock lets you come out for this. I was worried he’d be an arse about having you in service for the whole contract.”

“I think as long as I’m around for the cleaning and stuff, he’s fine.” John shrugged. “Half the time he’s so engrossed in his experiments, I’m not sure if he knows whether I’m even there.”

“He knows,” Greg said. “He probably just doesn’t think he needs to show that he does.”

John quirked an eyebrow. “Speaking of that, well,” John paused and drank some more. “Sherlock said you’ve been a donor for years.” He blushed and looked away. “He said you – you let yourself fed on directly. But if it's been years then it's not a part of a contract. Plus you're too old, right?”

Greg took a long swallow and put the glass down carefully. “Shit.”

“Sorry. He told me that it’s, um, private.”

Greg nodded, eyes focused on some point across the room. “You could say that. What brought that up?”

“I met his brother, Mycroft Holmes, today. The guy whisked me away in a limousine and asked questions.” 

Greg grimaced. “I can imagine.” He paused. “Mycroft is my partner, my boyfriend, if you can apply a label like that him. And I am his donor. And yes, he feeds straight from me. Regularly.” He smirked at John, who gaped at him.

“You?!”

Greg shrugged.

“It’s been a couple of years now. We, well, _he_ , is somewhat private.” John snorted. “I know, amusing considering how much he pries into other people’s lives. But honestly, he does care for his brother, and he wants to know that things are ok between the two of you.”

John frowned. “How would it be bad?”

“John, for all of their bluster and bite,” they both snorted, “vampires put themselves into vulnerable situations by taking on a donor to feed from repeatedly. Sherlock was right, a vampire biting a human and feeding from him, especially regularly, is a very private and personal thing. It forms a bond. The more he feeds from you, the more you’re a part of him. And if something were to happen to you, he could get hurt. Not to mention you could always simply deny him your blood. Sure he could force you, but I hear that when that happens it doesn’t taste as good and it causes complications.”

John thought about what Greg had said. “So…where does that leave us? Sherlock and I?”

Greg shrugged. “Depends on where you both take it. You could form a nice friendship, live as colleagues who happen to share blood from time to time. Or…well, I mean, John, _you’re_ the only one who can truly answer this. But what does the bite feel like to you?”

“Feel like?”

“The bite. Were you ever bitten before Sherlock?”

“Nope.”

“Ah. Makes it a bit difficult since you’ve got nothing to compare it to.”

“What do you mean? What am I looking for?”

Greg looked at his beer and considered that this conversation was only made possible by alcohol. Lots of it. “Well. I mean. Ok. Where does he bite you?”

“My wrist,” John said, turning up his left sleeve to show Greg.

Greg nodded. “Ok. Not too intimate. Could be elsewhere. And what does it feel like?”

John flushed and glanced away from his friend’s knowing gaze. “Umm…”

“John, look, I’m in the same boat. I’ve been there. Trust me when I say that at this point of your connection between you and Sherlock, there’s nothing you can say that I probably haven’t already experienced.”

John laughed. “Ok. Fine. It feels good, ok? Like, bloody brilliant. It hurts a bit, yeah, but then it’s like I’m rushing through a bright light and he’s there with me, pulling me with him. And then when he’s done, it’s like I’m plopped back down in reality with two puncture wounds and a hard on.” Greg snorted. “And then he cleans me up and rolls down my sleeve…he’s so oddly tender. Like I’m going to break.” John finished talking, flushed, and took a long swig of beer. When he looked up again, he found Greg looking at him thoughtfully. 

“Well, that’s good. Some people don’t mesh with the vampire that claims their contract and I hear it hurts like a bitch. In those situations, they usually use syringes to remove the blood and store it.”

John winced in sympathy. He could imagine that sharp pain that danced on the edge of pleasure tipping towards just pain. It also explained Mycroft’s reference to needles. “What makes some mesh and some not?”

Greg shrugged. “If vampire poetry is to be believed, the connection is soul mates.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“Well, they’re remarkably emotional when it comes to literature. They’ve had lots of time to hang around and write, see?”

John chuckled. “Now I’ve got an image of Mycroft Holmes sitting around waxing poetic, composing long ballads and odes.”

Greg laughed. “I’ll tell him you said so. He’ll think it’s funny.”

John smiled, noting how easily the DI spoke of Mycroft. “You almost make him sound like he’s human.” He nudged Greg in the ribs playfully.

“Well, he grows on you.” He eyed John. “Sherlock seems to be growing on you.”

John smiled ruefully and shrugged. “I guess you could say it’s not as bad being in service as I thought it would be…Should I, well. I mean, you think it’s significant that he’s feeding right from my wrist, right?”

“Well…I don’t know. Sounds like Mycroft thinks so. Sounds like Sherlock likes you. I don’t think he’ll force you to do anything you don’t want, though. He’s _very_ self-controlled.”

“You’re telling me? The other day I found out that he hadn’t eaten in three days. He said that it ‘distracted him,’” John said, adding air quotes and rolling his eyes. 

“Did he feed after you asked?”

“I may have waived my wrist under his nose once or twice until he did.” John flushed a bit, remembering the intense look that Sherlock had given him that time. They had been in a dark sedan coming from the end of an investigation. Sherlock had nearly pinned John to the seat with his free hand as he had fed. It had made his blood boil and his cock ache.

Greg saw the blush and snorted. “Ok, so things are going ok between the two of you. Follow…corny as this sounds, follow your heart. You’re a good guy, John Watson. I think your instincts are good. Very good. Follow them.” Greg patted his shoulder.

“Hey,” John said, “Thanks for listening. And for the advice.”

“Just let me know if he hurts you, ok? I’ll kick his arse, vampire or not.”

John chuckled and finished off his beer.


	6. Chapter 6

John hung his coat on the hook near the door and wandered into the sitting room. His conversation with Greg over drinks was swirling around his brain, and he sat in what had become _his_ chair. Sherlock sat working on his laptop, and John hadn’t even realized he was staring at him until the vampire suddenly stopped and turned to him.

“I take it your drinks with Detective Inspector Lestrade was entertaining and worth your while?”

John jumped and came out of his reverie. He cleared his throat and didn't meet the vampire's sharp eyes. “Yeah. It was…good to see him.”

When nothing else was forthcoming, Sherlock turned back to the laptop. John watched him, brain working at the problem that was Sherlock Holmes. It was clear that something was happening that John couldn’t identify. Both Greg and Mycroft Holmes seemed to think their relationship to be significant, more than that of a normal donor and master. And every time Sherlock fed from, plunged his fangs into his skin, John felt…so much more. Like his life before had been flat and grey and dull.

He would never, afterwards, be able to say why he did it. Or maybe he would say that he was following his instincts. John stood up quietly and slipped off his jumper, and then his button down shirt, leaving him in just his t shirt. Sherlock looked up at him as he approached. The vampire leaned back and quirked one eyebrow.

“Greg told me that every time you feed from me, directly from my body, that it forms a bond. But you never take enough blood, even though you _must_ want more, and you hold me at arm’s length. Literally.” John held out his left arm in demonstration.

“I don’t wish to hurt you. Or myself,” Sherlock replied.

“I won’t refuse you. You don’t have to keep me out,” John said resolutely. 

After a moment of silence, Sherlock asked, “What do you want, John?”

John took a step closer. The vampire’s nostrils flared. “For starters, I want you to actually feed properly. I can help you. I want to help. If you don’t feed properly you will continue to get weaker. And then one day you won’t heal.” He paused. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Sherlock stood up abruptly, towering over John. “And what is it that you _want_ , John?” He crowded into John’s personal space, one hand teasingly barely grasping his left wrist.

“Not there,” John said, glancing down to where Sherlock touched him. Silently, he titled his head back and to the side, showing his bare neck in blatant invitation.

Sherlock inhaled sharply at the sight. He ran his thumb over the skin and leaned in close, his lips barely touching John’s ear. “I will take more blood than before, and it will leave you weak and at my mercy, John.” John shivered and bit his lower lip. Slipping into predator mode, Sherlock smiled and led him to the sofa. 

“It will be easier this way,” the vampire said, directing John to lie on his back along the sofa. John nodded, watching him with wide eyes. “Relax, I will not harm you, John Watson.”

“Will it feel very different?” John asked as Sherlock knelt next to him.

“Perhaps. I’ve had you lie down so that you don’t feel dizzy.” He idly rubbed John’s neck. “Are you ready?”

“Of course,” John said more bravely than he felt.

Sherlock’s lips parted, and John could see the fangs extended. The vampire leaned down and lapped at the skin on the side of John’s neck. One hand cradled his head, and the other applied strong pressure to his stomach, pushing him down. After three long licks, Sherlock pierced the skin. John gasped, and would have arched up had he been able to. 

Somehow this was even more arousing, more intimate, and so much more overwhelming. “Fuck! Sherlock. Ohhhhh…..” He was hard in an instant. He could _feel_ Sherlock taking his blood in hungry gulps. He could feel Sherlock swallow. He could feel Sherlock’s soft curls tickling the side of his face in direct contract to the sharp push of his fangs. 

John felt as if he were being held at the brink of something that would shatter him, and after what felt like an eternity, the vampire pulled away. Sherlock licked at the wounds again to close them and pulled back, eyes intently taking in every detail of John’s face and body. John panted softly and slowly opened his eyes.

“Are you feeling ill?” Sherlock said, noting John’s glazed eyes.

“No...Wow,” John said finally with a soft chuckle.

Sherlock smirked. “Stay there.”

John nodded, a bit dizzy. He was still achingly hard, and there wasn’t a hope in hell that Sherlock hadn’t noticed. He opened his eyes again when Sherlock covered him in a light blanket. When had his eyes closed? Sherlock knelt next to him again and smoothed the blanket down. “Lie still. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

Sherlock’s cell phone chimed. “Lestrade,” Sherlock said without looking. “I’ll be back later. Rest.”

John watched him leave, and then fell into a fitful sleep in which he dreamed of a dark haired vampire whose voice alone made him shiver. When he awoke later, he was alone, which was a good thing considering that he had cum in his jeans.


	7. Chapter 7

The next couple of days were a blur. Sherlock had a new case, and was, as usual, completely focused on it. It wasn’t until the third day of the case that John realized that the vampire hadn’t fed on him since the first time he’d fed from his neck. John waited until they were in a black sedan, headed back to 221B after Sherlock had solved the case. 

“Honestly, how could that idiot believe that no one would notice that the nurse was left handed, not right handed? It was obvious.” John let Sherlock gloat, nattering away quickly at the idiocy of the general population. He smiled to himself. For all of his complaints, Sherlock clearly loved it.

After the vampire ran out of complaints with a huff, John touched his forearm. “You need to feed. It's been too long since the last time you had nourishment,” he said, using his stern-doctor voice.

Sherlock eyed him, assessing his flatmate and donor. He leaned forwards and said softly, “Considering your reaction previously, perhaps we should wait until we’re home, hmm?”

 _Ohhh fuck. He knew how hard I was._ “Probably a good idea,” John choked out, flushing slightly, and nervously shifting on his seat. 

Sherlock sat back and chuckled low in his throat. The driver eyed him in the rear-view mirror as John looked pointedly out the window, hands clenched in his lap.

At 221B, John carefully stripped off his scarf and jacket, watching the vampire warily. For some reason, despite having been living together for a while now, John was suddenly nervous. Would it hurt? What did Sherlock actually want? What if Sherlock lost control and took too much blood? 

“Stop it,” Sherlock said. John jumped and looked right up into the vampire’s bright eyes.

“Stop what?” John asked, taking a step back and bumping into the wall.

“Thinking. You’re over thinking this. Us. Everything.”

“But I-“

John was cut off when Sherlock tilted his head up and kissed his mouth. Sherlock’s lips were cool to the touch, as was his tongue, which John found oddly arousing as the sinuous organ pushed at his mouth. The vampire's hands gripped his biceps strongly, keeping him in place as he focused all of his extensive energy on Doctor John Watson. John found that he enjoyed being the center of Sherlock’s attention, and he leaned back, almost relaxing into the kiss. As his cock hardened, he pushed his hips forwards, blatantly showing Sherlock the effect he had on him.

Sherlock pulled back. “What do you want, John?” he asked in a soft murmur before sniffing at his neck.

John’s mouth opened several times as a million thoughts careened through his mind. “I think I want you to take what you need,” he said haltingly, “to take – take me.” 

Sherlock leaned his forehead against John’s shoulder, breathing hard. “If you have any questions, now is the time to ask while you can still back out.”

John swallowed, still pinned to the wall. “Right. Um, how much blood will you take?”

“You want to know if I could lose control and drain you completely. No. I can feel your heartbeat, John,” he said, placing one hand over his heart. “I won’t let it slow to the point of endangerment. I will know when to stop.”

“Right. Um…” John said with a swallow. _Is this different? Do I mean anything to you?_ _Are we going to shag?_ “Was it like this with your previous donors?”

“I haven’t had a personal donor in a very long time. Not since I was much younger. And it wasn't like this is between us.”

“Then how have you not starved?” John ask, frowning.

“Mycroft sends one of his minions over, letting me feed, if needed. Really, we can go much longer than humans believe without food.”

John paused, thought about it, and then blurted out the question he really wanted to ask. “Why me? Why is this – us – different?” 

For a minute, John didn’t think he would get an answer. He couldn’t see Sherlock’s face as it was still buried in the crook of his neck. “Because you’re you,” he said finally. John frowned. “Because you’re interesting and brave and so very solid. And, you smell utterly divine.” Sherlock sniffed at his neck again and sighed happily.

“Ah, that’s why you were sniffing my wrist the other day like a glass of fine wine.”

Sherlock nodded with a deep hum and John hesitantly ran a hand through his dark curls. They stayed like that for a minute. Finally John spoke. “So, now what?”

Sherlock pulled back and looked him in the eyes. “Now I’m going to give you what you want.” The feral smile that slowly spread across his face showed both of his fangs as they slowly extended.

It made John shiver in anticipation.

Chuckling softly, Sherlock picked John up in his arms as if he were a doll, and carried him quickly down the hall to his bedroom. John was so surprised, he didn’t protest and merely gaped up at Sherlock’s determined face. In the bedroom, Sherlock laid him down on the bed. John leaned back on his elbows and watched Sherlock take off his blazer and carefully hang it in the closet. 

When Sherlock turned around, he nearly pinned John to the bed with his eyes. He slowly moved towards the bed, gracefully like a predator. 

_Prey._ John felt like prey being stalked. He should have been afraid. He should have been petrified. But as Sherlock reached the bed and gently pushed his legs apart, all he could think of what how utterly right this felt.

Sherlock knelt between his legs and pulled off John’s shoes and socks. Then he stood up and helped John take off his jumper and undershirt, leaving him bare chested. “Lie back on the bed, John,” he directed. As John shifted to the center of the bed, Sherlock pushed off his own shoes and socks, and lay down next to him. 

“Kiss me.”

“What?” John asked, surprised.

“Kiss me. It will help you feel like you have more control and therefore ease some of your anxiety over the situation in which you find yourself.”

John smiled a bit at the logical nature that Sherlock brought to ‘the situation in which he found himself,’ as he put it. John looked at the space between them. He felt a bit vulnerable, being now naked from the waist up and Sherlock was still dressed. John gathered his courage and propped himself over Sherlock, who stared up at him intently. John’s eyes went to the vampire’s lips. They were barely parted and looked rather kissable. He slowly pressed his lips against him, slowly tasting the vampire beneath him.

As before, Sherlock’s lips were a bit cool to the touch, as was his tongue. John felt a hand run through his hair and he shuddered, remembering how the vampire’s hands had turned into claws when fighting the murderer in the alley.

John pulled back. “Do you – will your claws come out?”

“No,” Sherlock said with a slight shake of the head. “That only happens when necessary when fighting.”

“Ah. So I guess I shouldn’t….”

“Fight me,” Sherlock finished with a grin. In a blink he flipped them over so that he was pinning John to the bed with his hands, hips pressing down into him. “Do you want to fight me, John?” he asked in a whisper, lips barely touching John’s.

“No,” John said softly. “I want…you – to make me yours.” He pressed his lips to the vampire’s, swallowing his answering growl.

When the broke apart, Sherlock roughly grasped John’s chin. “You don’t know what you’re offering.” His voice was dangerously low.

John licked his lips. He could feel the adrenaline rushing through his body. “Then tell me.”

Sherlock hovered over him, caressing John’s face and chest. “Look at you. So open. So…vulnerable. My brave John. You have no idea how weak you are next to me.” He ran the nail of his thumb slowly down the side of John’s neck. John hissed and arched his neck. “I could break you like a twig,” he hissed, “And you would be defenseless. Doesn’t that frighten you? To be naked next to a monster?”

John ran the tip of his finger over Sherlock’s lips. “I know you can hurt me. But I don’t think that you will.” When Sherlock’s lips parted, he pushed the tip inside and grazed it against one of the sharp fangs. He didn’t wince when it sliced through his skin with little pressure.

The vampire’s eyes widened when John moved his finger from Sherlock’s mouth to trace it slowly over his own neck, leaving behind a tempting trail of blood. Sherlock’s nostrils flared at the blatant challenge and invitation. 

Just before Sherlock’s lips met John’s neck, he paused and said lowly, “Don’t think you can back out after that, John Watson.”

John didn’t have the chance to reply. Sherlock lapped up the blood in several long licks, and then his fangs were pushing effortlessly into his neck. John hissed at the still new sensation of being bitten in somewhere that was so much more intimate than his wrist.

John had thought that he understood how this would be. Now, as the vampire pinned him down on the bed, head buried in the crook of his neck, and swallowing John’s blood in long languid gulps, he realized just how wrong he had been. He had never felt so much pleasurable pain before. His cock reached an aching hardness almost immediately. He wanted to touch himself. Some animal part of his brain wanted to push the vampire away in a desperate feeling of self-preservation. A big part of him wanted to pull Sherlock in for more. John settled for digging his fingers into the vampire’s bicep and holding on as his vision blurred around the edges. 

And then every sensation ratcheted up a notch when Sherlock, fangs still buried in John’s neck, pressed his thigh against John’s hard cock through his slacks. John hissed and, before he could stop himself, began to push up against the offered leg. He flushed as he rutted against Sherlock’s leg like an animal in heat, the pleasure of pressure against his aching cock tempered by the sharp burn in his neck. He vaguely realized that the vampire wasn’t even drinking anymore, just keeping his fangs painfully attached to his neck. Caught between the sharp pain in his neck and the sensations in his cock, pleasure shot between those two points, ricocheting back and forth until he cried out loudly and came hard. He shuddered his release, still pinned down to the bed.

John panted softly as the vampire licked at the puncture wounds he had made, closing and healing them with his saliva. Sherlock lay down and pulled John to rest against his shoulder.

“So beautiful like that, John,” he murmured, fingers dancing along the back of John’s neck and kissed the top of his head. “So brave, my John.”

As John’s breathing slowed, he drowsily said, “Hey, your lips are warmer now.”

“Mm, your blood is warming me, flowing through my veins.”

John smiled sleepily. “Glad it makes you better.”

“Are you dizzy?”

“No,” John said with a contented sigh. “Just sleepy.” He shifted against Sherlock and his eyes widened a fraction when he felt the vampire’s cock poking at him through their clothes. “You’re hard,” he whispered, nuzzling Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock hissed as John moved lazily against him. He placed a hand on John’s hip and stopped his movements. “You’re tired.”

“So?” John said with a slow smile.

Sherlock growled. With so much fresh blood coursing through his veins, the urge to hunt and dominate was overwhelming. He quickly rolled John over so that they were back to front, and roughly pushed John’s slacks to his knees. John was wearing a pair of red shorts underneath, and he could see the wetness of where he had just cum in them. And as he watched, John’s cock was already hardening again.

John started to wriggle more out of his slacks, but Sherlock stopped him. “No, like this. Just like this,” he said as he unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled John back and they both inhaled at the feeling of heated skin against skin.

John turned his head, looking at his over his shoulder. “Are you going to -?”

“No, you’re not ready for that. Trust me, John.” Sherlock reached between them and unzipped his own slacks so that he could pull out his long hard cock. He pulled down the back of John’s tempting red shorts and pushed his cock into the tight space between John’s thighs. 

Sherlock growled as his cock slipped between John’s arse cheeks. He held John’s upper hand and pinned it to his chest as he started to push his cock back and forth, setting up a quick rhythm. John obligingly squeezed his cheeks tightly around him. Sherlock imagined when he would be able to have John Watson splayed out beneath him, completely naked and at his mercy. His mind cataloged the things he would do to him, with him.

“If I touch your cock, will you cum again?” he asked, lips just behind John’s ear.

“Fuck. Yes, Sherlock please!”

The vampire grinned and palmed John through his shorts. “Then cum for me,” he growled. “Clench your delectable arse around me.” John howled as his second orgasm ripped through him. As he did so, Sherlock groaned and came, shooting his seed between John’s clenched thighs.

They lay there like that, panting softly. After a moment, Sherlock extricated himself and pulled the back of John’s shorts up, caressing his hip.

“I don’t think I’ve cum that hard in a long time, “ John said with a chuckle. “Twice.”

Sherlock laughed and placed a kiss on the back of his neck. “I take it you enjoyed it?”

“Mmm,” John replied sleepily. “Yes. Should probably change my pants though.”

Sherlock pressed his hand to the front of the red shorts. He could feel their combined seed, warm and wet beneath the fabric. He grinned lasciviously. “Keep them on.”

“But Sherlock-” John protested.

“Keep them on,” Sherlock repeated. “Consider it an order that falls under your contract.” He dug a nail gently into John’s nipple and said in a low voice, “You may as well keep them on since I plan to add to the mess in them later.”

John shivered at the possessive tone in his voice. “Yes sir.”

Behind him, Sherlock smiled. “Now rest. You’ll need your energy for later.” He pulled John to him and buried his face in the crook of his neck, falling asleep enveloped in the scent of John Watson.


End file.
